Bring Me Down
by LankySundown
Summary: Sweet like a kiss, sharp like a razor blade, Katniss always seems to find Haymitch when she's close to the bottom. Sometimes he's okay with that, sometimes he's not. Rated for a reason.
1. Chapter 1

**Bring Me Down. **

_Sweet like a kiss, sharp like a razor blade_

_I find you when I'm close to the bottom._

_ - Miranda Lambert_

* * *

AN: So this is just a oneshot of angst, and the Haymitch found here differs from the Haymitch I usually write, so don't be alarmed. Also, the tense may get a little wonky, sorry about that one. R&R appreciated as always! 3

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins does.

* * *

The door was wrenched open. The screen door banged against the side of the house, and Haymitch could see a silhouette hunched in his doorway. It had an awkward but defiant stance as it lingered there, dripping rainwater onto his hardwood floor. If he cared about things like houses, he'd be upset by this. If he cared about things like privacy, he would be offended by this kind of intrusion. But, as the silhouette took step after measured step forward, its form became slowly swathed in light from the bare bulb of the hall. Haymitch smiled. Well, it came out as some convoluted form of one, but it was a smile to him. Because it was _her_. And he never minded the intrusions when she was the one making them.

There was something about this girl, something fiery that warmed something deep down inside of him, like a fire in his gut, like the sensation of drinking a good bottle of whiskey on an empty stomach. Intoxicating, one might say.

So she'd come into his house without asking permission, another thing Haymitch would never excuse unless it was her sin. But he kinda liked it when she took charge. It made him smirk.

So she'd walked into his kitchen, facing the drunk sitting (or, rather, slouching) at the table, his glass firmly planted on the surface and hand curled protectively around it. She just stood there, facing him, then took her braid in her hands and wrung it out onto the kitchen floor. Haymitch realized he should care about this defiling of his property, but just couldn't bring himself to say anything. He just continued to smirk at her while, before,

"Here we are again, sweetheart." She physically loathed him calling her that and he knew it, but it just felt so good to make her squirm. Oh, how he loved to make her squirm.

"It's the rain," she started speaking without even thinking, "it reminds me of – " But she didn't say it. It was taboo, and they both understood. _He_ was off-limits, something to go unspoken between them.

So she diverted her gaze and stared at the puddle gathering around her feet.

He chuckled, grabbing at a half-full bottle of some white liquor and before slamming it down in front of her. It was what she was here for. Well, that, and...

"You're disgusting, you know that?" she spat at him tiredly before taking the bottle in her hand and lifting it, letting the contents drain down her throat.

She was always like this, tired and so beat down, when she came to him. He used to give her liquor and let her sleep on his couch, maybe let her head home if she could still walk. But he wasn't her mentor anymore, and she wasn't the little girl from the Games. She stayed there on her own now.

To her comment, he simply replied, "And yet you always come back."

She got that glint in her eye at that, and Haymitch felt that delicious rush of something like fire course through him as she glared in his direction, tilting the bottle up to her lips again like it was her lifeblood.

"Shut up," she warned.

"Make me." It was childish, and he knew it, but there was an undertone to his response that he prayed she'd pick up on and run with.

But instead, she just rolled her eyes and kept drinking. So he decided to push his luck.

"Or haven't you accepted the fact that you come running to me for comfort whenever you miss your poor little Bread Boy?" He can see the angry tears building in her death glare, but he doesn't stop, oh no, because when does he ever? Enough is never enough for him, he has no boundaries, no borderlines to care about crossing, so he continues. "Oh, I get it," he snapped his fingers and leaned forward in earnest, meanly, in his chair. "This the only way you feel comfort, in't it, sweetheart?" The nickname rolls scalding hot off his tongue, headed directly for her heart. "You going to somebody who'll kiss out the loneliness? Somebody who'll _fuc_-"

"You know what, fuck you!" Katniss is suddenly standing and dry-heaving words at him, chucking the bottle at his head.

Haymitch rises, too, rocking to his side to avoid the bottle, then stalks drunkenly toward the girl. "You always do," he whispers, and she retreats, matching his steps but in the opposite direction until she finds herself pinned against the countertop by his hips. He reaches up a hand drags his fingers across her cheek to the hairs at the base of her neck. "Don't you, sweetheart?"

She puts forth a wimpy effort when she tries pushing his arm away, turning her face. Tears are leaking from her eyes. She's looking away, unfocused on some trash pile on the floor, so he grips her cheeks between his fingers and turns her face to him, the pressure scrunching her lips together so slightly so that when his mouth attaches itself hungrily to hers, he can taste her, can taste the saltwater tears and the sadness, and he wants so badly to just kiss it out so there would be none of it left. But Haymitch doesn't do nice, doesn't do inter-fucking-personal charity work, so he bites down on her lip, trying to get her to come alive at least once more. Like the girl she used to be. Before all this.

He feels a small vibration upon his chest, and realizes that she's hit him, her fists balled up on his shirt. He growls a little, pulling her closer to him, and starts kissing at her neck. As he makes his way south towards her collarbone, to the spot he knows drives her crazy, it raises goosepimples across her bared flesh. He senses her hands flatten out on his chest, her delicately tilted throat give out a half-gasp. He pulls away to take in the sight of her, but barely gets a glance before her lips crash into his with a clash of teeth bumping against each other, a nip of lips and heat of tongues as she attacks. Her eyes are closed, her brow furrowed.

Her consent, if hesitant, to this madness.

He knows the right thing to do would be to stop, to tell her and himself that this was destructive, desperate behavior they were practicing, and it was unhealthy. But Haymitch had never really cared about right and wrong, had developed his own sense of morality throughout the years mixed with a little libido, and this was breaking none of his personal ethics codes. Well, probably. But he leans in anyway, grinding himself against her with urgency, daring to bruise her lips, pulling her head closer by his hand at the back of her neck. Her hands rise, circling his neck, clawing him nearer and returning the pressure as she bites at her mentor's lips. _This is so fucked up_, they're both thinking it, but since when has anything ever been right in either of their lives? It's right enough, it _feels_ right when her hand ball up in the collar of his shirt and pull him closer, when his hands close in on her hips, his thumbs drawing wide circles there. Their mouths open, battling each other for the upper hand, or for who's going to outdo who tonight, in another round of this crazy, fucked up _thing_ they have going on.

But they don't think about it, have learned not to, as she pushes back against him, up on her tiptoes trying to gain leverage, and in response he lifts her up and puts her on the countertop. He doesn't object when her legs wrap around his torso, and she doesn't object when his fingers move to the buttons on her shirt. When he slides the fabric down over her shoulders, she breaks away for another strangled half-gasp. But, damn, the way she looks when she gasps, her head bent back, her neck bared to him, her eyes closed and tear streaks shining down her face and neck in the dim lighting... She could be a portrait. Of what, exactly, Haymitch doesn't stop to contemplate. Instead, he follows the glistening trails with his mouth, his thumbs working slowly over her nipples, moving in circles and making them rigid beneath his touch. She's pulling at the hair at the base of his neck, the part that turns brown when he sweats, and she knew how that tiny little action drove him crazy, she was milking it for all it was damn worth. He was getting hard, and was mad about it, the way she had this effect on him - and so damn _quick_ - so he bit into her lip in punishment and ground his hips into the space between her legs, making her respond with another intake of breath. In a rush of fingers, his pants were off and she was struggling to kick off hers without falling off the counter and without breaking the contact of Haymitch's mouth with her left nipple. She was wet (because he was so damn good at getting her there), so much so that she was practically dripping onto the countertop. Finally freed of her pants and panties, she pulls down the band of his boxers and he springs free. Her feet twist together at his lower back, heels digging into him as if to say _hurry_ _up already, you bastard_. Or maybe that was just his interpretation. Either way, he didn't need a second telling, nor did he need spoken consent to get started.

Without priming her up like he would any old girl, he slammed directly into her, digging his nails into her back as she moaned and screeched all in the same breath. His length entirely submerged, he wiggled his hips around to get the right feel before pulling out and pushing back into her, this time even deeper. He was being forward but agonizingly slow, he knew this, and while he'd love to just get on to flesh-slapping fucking, he wanted to make her pay. It'd been too long since he'd seen her last. Damnit, he could barely last a week without her anymore. That was one thing he'd have to start working on.

But he couldn't help it as he brought his pace slowly back to normal, couldn't help how his hands moved in soft caresses over her bare shoulders, how his lips placed soft kisses on that collarbone. Granted, he was slamming into her, harder now, but he was spiraling out of control, and his fingers dug into her lower back, his lips sucked at her neck, and he felt a hand rise to support the back of her neck, like you would a newborn, and a flash of something like tenderness threatened to start spilling into his gut until he tried to banished it.

He was pumping harder. She was breathing so heavy, matching him stroke for stroke. They were both coming way too soon, he could feel it, but he wanted to be an asshole so he came inside her before she had the chance to orgasm. In his ecstasy, he felt an impact on the left side of his face, and looking up groggily he realized he'd just been slapped by a now pleasure-ridden Katniss.

"Violence makes you come, sweetheart?" he throws at her jaggedly.

She doesn't even answer, just pushes him away as the last waves of pleasure descend over her, and he's pulled out before she stops trembling with the force of the orgasm. _This isn't right_, he thinks. But this was how they did things. He finally builds up the courage to look at her, and she's got tears in her eyes. She was probably thinking about Lover Boy the whole time they were at it, wished Haymitch was him. Well, _he_ wishes things were different too, wishes she wouldn't come over here only when she was all broken up and in need of a fuck. But things _weren't_ different, and hey, she _did_ keep coming back.

So he'd take what he could get, he decided, while staring at her on his countertop, spent and trying to collect herself. He just realized the fact that he himself was sprawled in a kitchen chair, naked and limbs and member askew. She got herself down from the counter, bent over to pick up her pants, and Haymitch's piece gave a twitch, threatening to wake back up again.

He decided to do nothing about it, simply looked on as she turned to the sink, filled a glass with water. He expected her to take a long drink from it, but instead, she turned on her heel and threw the water directly in his face.

"Violence doesn't make me come," she spits out. He sputters.

Her expression turns sad, her voice barely above a whisper. "You know it's you."

He stares for a second. Then he begins to laugh. So _what_, because she trusts him so much, she'll let him fuck the shit out of her before finding herself a normal, healthy relationship that might actually fix her up a little? She's so fucking blind. Why did she ever trust him, and why in hell does she keep trusting him? God, Haymitch doesn't even trust himself, especially not with her.

Her face hardens over into its expressionless mask, and she leaves.

Haymitch finally registers that it's still raining after the dull echo in his ears subsides. Suddenly overcome, he snatches at the nearest empty bottle and slams it to the floor, watching contently as it shatters.

There. Now he wasn't the only piece of broken, worthless shit in this house.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I know I said oneshot. Sorry, I was assaulted by vignettes of this Haymitch, so I decided to extend. Share your thoughts after reading? x

* * *

_You can't appreciate the time it takes_  
_to kick a love I always knew was kinda wrong_

Haymitch awakes the next morning to a stiff neck. Blinking the haze of sleep from his eyes, he suddenly realizes he's on the floor in only his pants, a bottle clenched in one fist. That, and a bit of crusted drink matting his chest hair. After inspecting his position with disgust, he lets his head fall back to the floor.

_Shit_. It happened again. He let her come, he used her, he let her go. And he'd promised himself to stop doing that. But as he laid there, eyes closed and trying to gather his thoughts, Haymitch couldn't stop the onslaught of images racing through his head. The soundtrack of conversations. Of comments. Of her little half-gasp-half-screeches. He scrunched his eyes together harder, but he still remembered.

The first time she'd come, it'd been for a drink. It was before the boy was even gone, before the Quell she was in. There'd been an attitude of disagreement between them even then. But he'd also been giving into her since then. And back then, led to the boy's ultimate destruction. She blamed herself, but Haymitch always knew it was his doing. And now they were leading to their own destruction. It was all his fault.

Haymitch hauled himself off the hardwood so stained by all of the alcohol spills over the years. The cacophony in his head was buzzing too much for him to pick out any singular voice in his surround-sound of memories, so he felt sane enough for the moment. Stumbling into the bathroom and out of his pants - how he even put them back on again eluded him - he pulled himself into the shower, turned on the water and sank down into the tub, the water raining over him like a thunderstorm. _Like last night, when she showed up, her hair all_ - But no. He couldn't think about that, about _her_.

When he finally pulled himself out of the shower, he sat down on the toilet seat, not feeling energetic enough to run upstairs for some clean clothes. He honestly didn't know why he kept them up there, because he _never_ felt energetic enough to go upstairs for them. Rubbing his hand through his wet hair, he looked up from his perch. Something red caught his eye, stuffed halfway behind the trash can...

Haymitch didn't wear red. He preferred to dress in the gloomiest colors he could find, the colors of rocks and of darkness.

But she wore red. Not often, but she did.

He wondered when the last time she'd been in his bathroom was. He certainly remembered the first - well, the first time that counted, anyway. And now he was half-paralyzed over a pair of red underpants. Hell, how had he let it get to this point?

He remembered when it started. She'd come over like any other night before. They'd been drinking together, as they'd gotten into the habit of doing (another thing Haymitch blamed himself for), and though she hadn't had half as much as she usually did, she suddenly shot up out of her seat and mumbled something about the bathroom. He'd barely raised an eyebrow, but definitely raised his drink to his lips as he sat on the couch in her absence. Then she came out of the bathroom. She had on only a pair of pale pink underpants and a tight T-shirt in a mossy green. _Where in hell are her pants? _He remembered thinking, though upon further inspection he realized he rather preferred her this way. Back then, of course, he'd kept that to himself. He didn't comment on their absence.

She, in the meantime, was making her way to where he sat on the couch, watching his startled face as she stopped right in front of him, pausing before swinging a leg on either side of his body, effectively straddling him. He remembered having the gut-clenching, jittery, totally _wrong_ but somehow euphoric thought, _she's trying to seduce me_, before she cupped the side of his face experimentally in her hand and brought it swiftly to her lips.

Yeah, he could suddenly tell that Peeta was the only other male she'd ever kissed. She didn't even use tongue.

And he'd felt bad for thinking that. Sort of.

He only realized he was kissing her back when he tried to speak. So he had to free his lips, sounding more out of breath than he should have when he asked, "You sure you want to do this sweetheart?" He was looking at some spot on the wall right above her shoulder, not at her when he asked, sure she'd realize her mistake and high-tail it out of there. But instead, her lips clamped onto his again. He took this as a yes. She'd always been better with action than with words. So he let her, damn, he opened his mouth to her, closing his own eyes. Above the shroud of thoughts clambering into his head, he heard a small sound from the back of her throat. _Oh, the sounds I will have you make_, he remembered thinking gloriously. His libido finally taking over, he had her flipped onto her back on the couch before he continued, "Alright then."

And he had told himself it would be the first and last time. But he'd known it wouldn't be that simple.

But it was, what, four months later? Maybe five? Haymitch realized that he was horrible at keeping track of the days, he always had been, but this just seemed ridiculous. He'd never, ever had anything like this last longer than a week, maybe two, and yet here he was, with the Girl on Fire, not night after night but still consistently. Four months. Or five. What was wrong with her? Or better yet, what was wrong with him? He decided he didn't want to think about the reasoning behind their months-long fucking, because he just wasn't that interested. Sure, he had thoughts when she came to play, but he's always tried not to think about what they were. Tried to live in the moment.

And in this moment he needed to be more drunk.

He'd been thinking that a lot lately whenever the topic of _her_ resurfaced.

So he made his way into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle still sitting on the counter from the night before, and pulled out the stopper with his teeth.

_Here we go again. _


	3. Chapter 3

_And as I'm putting out the flame_

_Somebody brings up your name_

* * *

There was a knock at the door. Haymitch cursed whoever was knocking, because he just wanted to spend the day wallowing with his alcohol. He supposes he does that every day, but _still_. So he mutters a steady stream of _who the fuck_s and _at this god damned hour_ses as he wrenches open the door. He barely has time to glance up and see who it is before he's pushed backwards by a pair of hands to his chest, vision obscured by a face attaching itself to his lips with urgency.

He's backpedaling, first out of hangover and out of confusion, but as a hand slides up to his neck and he starts to remember how to _taste_ – he knows who it is. And he can't help but grin, even if his mouth is busy doing other things.

_Ah, the return. _

She's somehow pushing him into the wall while pulling him toward her, and as he puts his hands on her hips he realizes that she's already shed her shirt. When she goes for his neck he catches a glimpse of it laying crumpled in the hall a few steps behind them.

Well, Haymitch had to admit he hadn't been expecting this. Not that he was complaining. This was a full-on frontal attack. This, Haymitch liked. This didn't make him feel so guilty.

So he let her continue, one, because why not, he liked the feel of her hands all over him, the feel of her hair beneath his fingers, the feeling that he was able to spark something within her. And though he tried not to think it aloud, the feeling that she sometimes came to fulfill a desire instead of a gaping hole in her chest.

And two, because she was so damn _good_ at this domination thing. How had he not noticed it before?

He was suddenly aware that she wasn't wearing pants anymore either, on top of her shirt being gone. A shiver ran down his spine as she trailed her stubby nails over his shoulder, his arm, because when he looked down he saw perfection in physical form pushing up against his decaying flesh. Not really decaying, no, but he was such a dirty old man for letting her stoop to this level, to lousy ol' _him_. But she tugged on the back of his head until his face was forced upward and caught in a lusty kiss. One of her hands worked its way down his back, leaving a trail of cold where her hot little hand had just been, until said body part sneaked its way into the band of his flannels. It elicited a growl from him, a feral impulse that demanded he draw her closer to him with a yank. Fight fire with fire, that's what he'd always done. Why rethink the strategy now? So he curled a hand into the base of her braid at her neck, forcing her head up so he could better eat on her lips, his tongue slipping against hers, teeth nipping. Her hair was a mess, not that he'd had the chance to look at it, but rather felt the stray pieces tickle his face as she kissed him, felt the spikes of its uneven length poking out of her braid when he pulled on it.

She pushed, he pulled, and he finally got himself off that damn wall and was pinning her against it. His hands planted themselves on the wall on either side of her head, trapping her there. He stopped ravishing her suddenly; tilted his face downward as if to catch his breath. To be honest, he _was_ catching his breath because Fire Girl was quite the breath taker. But he also did so as to create an angle that stopped her from kissing him, held her against the wall. He had to give her a little credit for her act tonight as she tried to tilt her own lips up to meet his, but was forced into failure. She made a sound of frustration.

"Back so soon, sweetheart?" he asked, razors on his tongue.

He thought he heard her snarl.

"Just fuck me already, you bastard," she said, her voice throaty. "You know that's all you want."

She took the opportunity to roll her hips into his, eliciting yet another shiver from Haymitch. She was making it hard to control himself, and she knew it. But he grabbed her hips and pushed her back against the wall. She collided with a light _thunk_, and glared up at him from beneath a curled brow.

"And what would you call what I'm doing ...right now?" he drawled.

"Torturing me."

"HAH," a cruel laugh spouted out from his lips as he pushed her hips further into the wall as she wiggled in his grasp. "Torturing you!"

She scowled. And then he thought he saw the beginning of the waterworks threaten to appear.

"Just stop _talking_ to me, okay?" she said.

Hmm. Something was with her tonight.

He admitted he was never the one to be pushed against walls in his own house. Something was on Fire Girl's mind. That had to be it. The fact that she didn't want to drink it out first was a little off, but Haymitch could shrug that off. He doubted he'd want to know what was nagging her anyway.

His eyes roamed over her; he was trying for leering but it just came out slightly worried. Of course, she was the only one who picked up on that.

"As you wish."

He took a step forward and wrapped his paw around the back of her neck, leaning in for a consuming kiss that she matched stroke for stroke. His hands sneak down to the curve in her back, to her behind, to her thighs, and she lifts a leg so he takes his cue, lifting her up off the wall. He's taking his time how, lavishing her neck lazily, and running his hands over her bare shoulders like he loves doing.

"Hurry the fuck up, Haymitch," she grits out, frustrated.

He purrs in her ear in response. "I'm getting there, sweetheart."

"Well you've already got _me_ there, so just-"

He audibly growls. "So you don't even bother with making _me_ want it? Just you, you, you?"

"That's what this relationship has always been about," she says between her heavy breaths, somehow managing to scowl at him too. "You, you, _you_."

"_Me_?" he asks, getting hot under the collar with her persistence at ruining the moment, at not playing along with their usual game tonight. "I think you have it a little backwards, sweetheart."

"When have you ever known what I wanted?" she says then, a dangerous tone to her voice. One that made him cringe back his emotions. Wait… _emotions_? What were those.

He knew what she came here for, even if he didn't know anything else. So he slid down his pants, the light flannel falling to his ankles as he pushed up and into her. She grits her teeth together, holding back a gasp.

She didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

Haymitch was awakened by a sudden coldness near his forehead. He was groggy, so he didn't bother to open his eyes, just laid there as if he was still asleep. The coolness he'd felt was soon replaced by a smattering of warmth, of movement, shifting from his forehead to his cheek. That's when he opened his eyes just a slit, and saw the dark outline of her wrist. What was she doing? Caressing his face, playing with his hair? Who told her she had the right? _Well, it did feel awfully good…_ No. This wasn't how they were supposed to work. He was about to show his wakefulness in full as protest, but his eyes snapped open before he could stop them. And he regretted it immediately. Because he _hated_ seeing her like this. This? The single tear escaping down the pillow side of her face, rolling onto her cheek and soaking into the cushion below. Her fingers at the tips of his too-shaggy hair until she'd noticed his consciousness and dropped them back to her pillow.

And her eyes, she'd erased the emotion in them as soon as she could, yet he'd seen a trace of something that made him think it wasn't long lost Bread Boy she was shedding a tear for like she usually did. That it was something much closer to her, hell, probably in the same room as her, that was making her do this. Possibly even in the same bed. And he loathed it, this effect he had on her.

He couldn't look at her like this, didn't want to have to deal with her and her emotions. They'd always been too strong for him to tame down anyway, that's why he'd taken to let her drink with him instead of talk to him after the whole… Peeta dying thing. So he pushed himself out of the cradle of a slept-in bed and over to her lips. He put his mouth to hers. Softly, lips closed. He was met with a rush of warmth emitting from hers, mixing with the feel of golden honey swirling in his gut. _Wait, the what?_

He pushed himself away like he'd just seen a ghost.

"No," he whispered, and as he stared horror-stricken into her face, he saw pain.

"I can't-" he was scrambling out of the bed as fast as he could, trying to untangle himself from the sheets and hearing a **rip as he stumbled onto his feet. "I won't-"

She was sitting up in his bed now, watching him struggle.

"_Fuck, I need booze._" And he stumbled out the door.

She finds him at the table, drunk as a skunk. She walks right past him to where her shirt lies crumpled in the hall.

"Leaving so soon?" He asks, the usual biting sarcasm in his tone.

She stands, letting the shirt fall limply over her torso.

"Yeah," she says tonelessly. "For good this time." She doesn't turn to look at him.

"What makes you think you'll keep your promise '_this_ _time'_?" He mocks her.

"You."

The single syllable slices through the air between them like a knife aimed directly for his heart.

If he had one, that is.

Heart or not, Haymitch can still feel the sharp sides serrating something within him. But the thing with Haymitch is, he doesn't get ready to make nice when he's hurt. Conciliatory is the last thing he gets. Haymitch, he gets mean. And sometimes he wishes he didn't, but that's just the way it is. He sits stone-cold as his face grows red with anger and his grip tightens on the bottle in his hand.

"You did it again last night," she continues coolly, pulling on her leather moccasins by the couch. He hadn't even seen her wearing any shoes last night. Guess it doesn't matter now.

"What?" he spits out.

"That thing you do sometimes." She had finished tying her shoes and stood to face him. "Kissing me real tender, running your hands over my shoulders again and again. The nice stuff."

He stares her down, takes a drink while she talks. Swiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he replies, "So what's the problem? 'Nice stuff?' I do that stuff all the time."

"I know." But there's a different meaning to her voice than he was hoping for. He'd meant his response to be sarcastic, meant that _everything_ he did with her was 'nice'; it sure _felt_ nice. But she'd gone twisting his words again.

He looks up at her, daring her to go on. To further this discussion in the direction he so clearly did not want it to go.

"And then there was this morning."

Haymitch's state turned deadly. _Fuck. No._ He'd come down here for a reason, to expressly avoid what he'd done this morning. _Morning after _stuff_._

She shakes her head and a sad smile twitches at her mouth. A rueful laugh tumbles from her lips before she speaks.

"You try to be so hard, acting like everything just _happens_, that you don't give a damn about me. Like fucking me for six months is just a phase we might still grow out of like we mean nothing to each other." It's then that she turns her head up to look him in the eye. "And you can't tell me that's not true."

Haymitch tries to swallow around the huge lump that'd been growing in his throat, but it seems to have completely blocked his airway. He can't really breathe, let alone swallow.

Haymitch always kept people at arms length; he'd _had_ to, he'd hurt everyone he'd ever loved by just _caring_ about them. But he had his needs too, so he'd let this start, had let it continue as long as she didn't ask questions, didn't say she loved him, didn't tell him much of anything. He'd just tried to separate his emotions and his actions, keeping them locked up and compartmentalized. And it had worked, for a while. But lately things were starting to unravel. He'd noticed too. How could he not? The walls starting to break; what he'd always kinda felt for the Girl on Fire starting seeping into his actions, into his touches; but he'd never before crossed a line like he had this morning. And now he was so close to losing her.

So he wanted to say something, he _needed_ to, but that lump of coal was still plugging his throat. She was still staring at him, eyes welling up, and he felt like he was drowning, but his pride, it wouldn't let him…

He tried clearing his throat, but a horrible throaty sound came out instead, with a shaky, "I…"

She nearly lets loose a sob, pushing a lump of hair out of her face.

"I don't want to stay away from you, Haymitch, but I _have_ to. For my own damn sanity." She spins to make her escape, but doesn't even get out the door before he sees her form contort and a sound he's never wanted to hear him inflict on her come out of her body: a lung-wracking sob. The door slams shut behind her, blocking the impact of the howl. But he can still feel it shaking his bones.

She leaves, and he breaks down.

* * *

AN: Sorry about the _superlong _wait, beloved readers. As usual: school happens. But I'm still devoted to Haymitch/Katniss, so don't give up on me! In other news, how's the story coming? Review? x


	4. Chapter 4

His right hand was planted on the wall beside the phone, his left hovering over the device just like it had been doing for about a week now. He'd been an unpleasant mix of really drunk and really sober alternately, and couldn't quite figure out which he was in at this moment. Regardless, here he was again, trying to pick up the receiver, forgetting about trying so damn hard not to care. But pride was a hard thing to overcome.

He'd been climbing the walls these past few days. Sure, he'd been without her for this long before, had lasted much longer, even. But before, he'd always had the unspoken promise of a return. And now, he wasn't so fortunate.

For the sake of his own sanity, he was finding it helpful to blame people.

He had blamed her some days, blamed himself on others, and even blamed Peeta on occasion. It depended on the day. Today Peeta was his scapegoat. Because, really, if the boy hadn't off and died, maybe Katniss wouldn't have been so self-destructive like she had been for the last few months, bringing Haymitch down with her. It was Peeta's fault that she was acting this way, acting blindly out of anger and grief, and it was Peeta's fault that the only one left to take it out on was Haymitch.

But as he stood there half-slouching, supporting himself against the wall, he knew that Bread Boy couldn't really be blamed for losing his brainwaves to the Capitol's perfected torture techniques. But losing him had been too much. Too much for either of them. If only Peeta had never insisted on loving the girl, if he'd just gone into that first arena and never come out... Maybe if he had never loved the girl at all, hadn't asked Haymitch for advice, hadn't come to him for every fucking little thing in between the Games and the Quell... Maybe Haymitch would've never had to think about the girl like that.

But who was he kidding? He'd thought highly of her since the day she first volunteered for her sister. He was fond of her feistiness in training. They had connected on some level, gained a new perspective of each other, through their communications during her first Games.

And he couldn't deny it, that scene on the beach during the Quell had made him jealous. Lover Boy finally living up to his name, and Katniss acting on pure instinct, nothing forced.

He loved that about her.

And when she was his Mockingjay. Being her only lifeline during those life-or-death propo filmings, it made him feel close to her again, even if their chances of survival were more dire than ever before. He learned to appreciate her fight, her constancy, when over and over he was on the verge to losing her, truly, if not to the Capitol then to sadness or morphling or herself. He'd really only ever been on her side through it all.

But after all was said and done, maybe something inside of him thought she needed to be continually challenged in order to bring out the best in her.

But that's not what he was doing to her right now, what he had been doing to her for the past few months. Somehow, he was breaking her. Wearing her down. And he hated that, after all she'd been through, that she could possibly let him be the ruin of her.

Letting his forehead slam into the wall, Haymitch's hovering hand gave up, trailing down the wall in defeat.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't pick up the phone. Not tonight. Not when he was still obsessed with scapegoats and old memories and fucking fondness. Something in his chest twinges at the word. He sinks to the floor, ready to wait out another day, praying for the sight of her just so he can explain, say he's sorry.

If words were his thing, which they hadn't been in a long time.

o0oOo0o

He's staring at her. She's in her Mockingjay wedding dress, and she's spinning, spinning, real flames emitting from the lower folds of the fabric. She's engulfed in them, dancing in them, and he's not sure if she knows it's real fire or not. She's standing on the roof of that hospital, the one from that round of propos, but she's alone this time and not dressed for battle. Somehow he's still on the other end of her earpiece, can communicate with her, can hear her breathless laughter as she twirls. But this time, he can also see her. Not on screen, like he sometimes is able to during filming, but in person, through the jittery windshield of a hovercraft. He grips whatever his hands are holding tightly, so close to telling her she's burning but then he realizes. He, Haymitch, is manning a blaster, a huge air-propelled gunning operation, and is standing at the helm of the machine, his hands on the hip-high, orange-and-black heavy-duty triggers that have just sent huge fireballs hurling towards his Girl On Fire on the roof of that building. He looks up from his hands just in time to see six fireballs zoning in on her, her face turning to him, her eyes finding his and opening wide, wondering, pleading, asking...

And the building that she's standing on, it explodes.

Haymitch awakes, finding himself on the floor next to the telephone, a harsh beeping coming from the receiver lying in his lap. He stares down at it, tears spilling over the rims of his eyes and rolling onto his crumpled shirt.

His head tilts back until it thunks against the wall, hand dragging the hair out of his face as he snorts in an attempt to reclaim the snot threatening to follow where the tears have already gone. He runs a hand across his nose regardless, sniffing again and opening his mouth slightly so he can breathe. He closes his eyes in an attempt to stop all forms of liquids to stop exiting his body via his face, trying to bring himself back into the present.

She was fine, she had to be, just like she always was. She _had_ to be. She only lived a few houses away. Haymitch would've heard if anything had happened, right? But then again, he was never a light sleeper...

Haymitch's eyes spring open. The phone is still beeping in his lap. Picking it up, he moves his rough fingers up to where the neck meets the listening head. Finding the switch, they finger it a while before pressing it down. The phone clicks off. When he lets go, a dial tone replaces the urgent, blood-pressure-raising beeping. Haymitch felt immediate relief.

He closed his eyes once more, falling into a slumber.

o0oOo0o

Six orange globes began floating lazily before him. It was almost like he'd been staring at the sun too long, except there were far too many suns represented to be _that_. Haymitch blinked his eyes, trying to get the sunspots to go away. But when he refocused, the sunspots were moving at light-speed, hurtling towards some large bird, almost like a heron, on top of a …

_No._

There was a flash of light. An explosion. But everything had stayed quiet for Haymitch, he was simply floating backwards, landing against a wall that he continued to slouch down in slow motion. Before him there was just orange, so much orange, and flames, and sparks in the air. And then there were feathers. Black and white, floating lazily through the sky of orange that engulfed him.

_Katniss_.

o0oOo0o

With a snort, Haymitch pushes himself off the ground, blinking, blinking, but suddenly everything is dark. Everything looks like his house in Victor Village.

It is, it is, he thinks, but his hands fly to the phone, pulling up the cord until the receiver was juggled into one hand his other flying to the dialer.

_Four-eight-one, five-one-six, two-three-four-two… _

Silence.

And then the slow constancy of the_ riiing, riiing._

He held onto the receiver with both hands. He didn't have words to say to her if she answered. Somehow that didn't matter. He just needed to hear her, needed to know she was alive, that she was _fine_, that she was…

There was a pause.

Then, "It's Katniss. I don't know how you got my number but I'm busy and I don't want to talk. Leave a message if you have to." _Beep_.

Haymitch was silent. His mouth opened, but he was silent. It wasn't her, but it was comforting, somehow, just to hear her voice, even if it was a recording.

He swallows, closing his eyes.

"I just wanted to hear your voice." He whispers it.

And then he hangs up.


End file.
